


(You Caught Me Hummin' The) Baby Blues

by QuillerQueen



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: 1st Curse AU, F/M, Gen, Inspired by OQ
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 16:35:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16021784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuillerQueen/pseuds/QuillerQueen
Summary: The Locksleys are captivated by the new addition to Regina Mills' small family. One friendship leads to another, and...





	(You Caught Me Hummin' The) Baby Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by two gorgeous manips by stargazingm31 and CarolinaMR.
> 
> https://www.instagram.com/stargazingm31/  
> http://outlawqueenmanips.tumblr.com/post/177071161250/saturday-au-happy-ending-heres-some-domestic

She’s always all brisk step and sharp suits, brimming with confidence and an aura that’s positively regal.

 

But today there’s something new about the mayor’s appearance. Not the tailored trousers or the smart vest over her crisp blouse—those are to be expected. It’s not even the unusual choice of seat—she favours one of the barstools, yet has opted for a booth this morning, for reasons all too obvious—that throws Robin.

 

The table before her is littered with more than her customary breakfast plate and coffee cup—a baby bottle, a stuffed toy, and a packet of wet wipes—and half the bench is occupied by a striped baby carrier.

 

Robin can’t quite make out its inhabitant without being all too obvious about it, but from the corner of his eye he catches the way the mayor’s hand moves inside in soothing passes that, however, seem to do nothing whatsoever to quell the baby’s incessant wailing.

 

Roland is fidgeting in his seat, twisting his body and craning his neck to get a proper look at this unexpected, and decidedly vocal, new arrival.

 

“Look at the baby, Daddy!” his boy cries just as Granny Lucas approaches, and the mayor’s half-exasperated, half-threatening look melts into something softer, cautiously grateful even, at the advice bestowed upon her.

 

“Time to head out, m’boy,” Robin says much to Roland’s dismay, leaving mother and child to finish their breakfast with an odd, lingering warmth deep in his chest.

 

* * *

The pair aren’t in the diner the next morning, and Robin finds himself deflating with disappointment—though hopefully not as dramatically obviously as his son does. Roland’s little shoulders fall, and he tugs at Granny’s hand as she passes by to ruffle his curls.

 

“Did we miss the baby?” he pouts. “I told Daddy to hurry up!”

 

“That you did,” Robin chuckles. In truth, he had been quite eager for breakfast himself, though perhaps not strictly for the food—but Granny doesn’t need to know that.

 

“No, Roland,” the woman smiles, adjusting the glasses on her nose. “They didn’t come in today at all. Must’ve been a long night. You know how it is with babies.”

 

The last words she directs at Robin, who hums his agreement—that he does. He remembers quite clearly, though time has dulled the edges somewhat, what it used to be like as the single parent of a newborn. Not that he’s any inkling if Regina Mills is one, come to think of it. There could be someone—a lover, a partner, a co-parent.

 

He finds himself eyeing the door every time the bell chimes—to no avail, for the duo never shows—and Roland continues to listlessly prod his pancakes with the fork until Robin announces it’s time to go and get his shot, which inspires a new wave of protest.

 

They’re pulling away from the curb in front of Storybrooke General, Roland chattering on about how brave he was and how huge the lollipop he got in reward is, when Robin spots her exiting the hospital. Her dark hair and creme coat are being blown about by the wind, a bag hanging from her shoulder that threatens to burst at the seams with baby stuff. With her son pressed snugly to her chest, she hurries right past Robin’s pickup to her parked Mercedes.

 

Her eyes are as red as the squirming, screaming infant’s face.

 

“Daddy, is the baby sick?”

 

“I should hope not, Roland. Perhaps the baby needed a shot just like you, yeah?”

 

“Or maybe his mama did. She was crying, too,” he reasons with a deep frown creasing his brow. “Did they forget to give her a lollipop? ‘Cause I could share mine!”

 

But by the time Roland is done fumbling with his harness in the backseat, the black Mercedes whizzes past them towards Mifflin Street, leaving behind an indistinct sense of foreboding.

 

* * *

 

Roland makes a card. He’s absolutely insisted on giving mother and son his  _ get well _ wishes, and so Robin resigns himself to their shared urge to ensure their well-being. They’ll deliver it to the mayoral office though, not her home—that way they keep a respectful distance still and not breech her privacy.

 

They’re less than acquaintances after all, have never spoken a word aside from a mere greeting once. She eyed him with suspicion that day months earlier, with something akin to dismay even, and perhaps it’s only his imagination, but she seems to have been giving him a wide berth ever since.

 

Granted, Regina Mills doesn’t have a reputation for warmth and kindness. Yet Robin had seen her smile radiantly at Roland, and even slip a replacement cone of ice cream to a child crying over a splatter of chocolate chip at her feet—when she thought no one was watching, that is. It seems the formidable mayor has a soft spot for children, who in any case are certainly less prone to approaching her with the prejudice and, rather often, fear so typical of the supposedly more mature denizens of Storybrooke.

 

They don't find her in her office after all. Her secretary informs Robin that Madam Mayor has gone out of town and will not be back for the rest of the week, and offers to hold on to the card until his boss returns, but Roland refuses to hand it over to anyone but her.

 

To the park it is then, to doctor Roland’s disappointment. His boy hops along half-heartedly, making plans to add a few flowers to his card for good measure, and Robin tries, truly he does, to steer his mind from dark thoughts he’s no way of confirming or refuting anyway. Such as whether her baby boy might after all be sick enough to warrant seeking a specialist outside of Storybrooke, or whether his mother has anyone to lean on should that be the case. Thoughts he has no business entertaining, in short, but he can’t help but feel concern for the new family.

 

“Daddy, daddy—there they are!”

 

“Wh—Roland, do not run off!”

 

But Roland is well on his way, nearing the pond they often visit to feed the ducks, and only moments later he very nearly collides with the pram. Robin only hears the faint echo of Roland’s excited voice before the mayor’s crouching down, shushing him it seems, but Roland isn’t backing away at all, steps closer instead and watches her take the card with an utterly bemused expression.

 

Robin jogs to catch up, just in time to catch the way her eyebrow shoots up, the way her lips curl softly, hesitantly almost, as if she had trouble comprehending any act of kindness extended to her. Roland is swaying on his feet, waiting for her reaction, his dimples deepening when Regina’s face melts into a grateful smile.

 

“Thank you,” she tells him, and Roland returns a polite  _ you’re welcome _ even as he stands on his tiptoes to see over the edge of the pram at the prodigiously silent baby. “This is my son, Henry,” she supplies with that unmistakable note of pride and affection. “And what’s your name, young man?”

 

“I’m Roland, and I’m this many.” He holds up four fingers, and she chuckles. “And that’s my Daddy.”

 

“Robin Locksley,” he offers, scratching the nape of his neck rather awkwardly.

 

“Regina Mills,” she says mechanically, wary again as she rises back to her feet, tucking her hand in her coat’s pocket before she changes her mind and offers it for a handshake after all.

 

Her skin is soft and cool in the crisp autumn air, her grasp firm.

 

“Apologies for the intrusion—I hope we haven’t overstepped.”

 

“No. No, I—It’s a sweet gesture. We’re not sick though—thankfully,” she breathes on a small laugh, as if she couldn't quite believe the relief of it. “Just...it’s a lot to figure out.”

 

Robin smiles sympathetically, but before he can respond—

 

“Does Henry have a papa?”

 

“Roland,” Robin warns, his cheeks burning. 

 

“I don’t have a mama,” his sweet, uninhibited, very inappropriate son announces. “She’s with the angels.”

 

Regina recovers faster than Robin, or enough at least to manage: “Well, Henry only has me.”

 

“I bet you’re amazing! My Daddy is,” Roland reasons, as if that settled it, and Regina throws Robin a crooked smile but genuine and warm, which only makes his chest flutter more wildly than it already is from Roland’s compliment. And then the child grabs the handle of the pram and, beaming and bouncing with eagerness, he offers: “I could be Henry’s friend! Can I? Please?”

 

* * *

 

She says yes.

 

To Roland, and his request. To playdates and sleepovers—shocked, she admits, that Robin should be so quick to trust her with his son.

 

If he’s being honest, it comes as quite the surprise to him as well, how deeply and thoroughly...invested he is in this new friendship.

 

And Roland adores Henry, adores Regina just as much.

 

“We don't have very many friends,” she tells Roland. “Henry is lucky to have gained one so young.”

 

“Thank you,” Robin says softly, “for humouring him.”

 

“Your son is cute,” she shrugs gamely. “Well-behaved, too.”

 

She’s starting to open up, ever so slowly, to Robin as well, no longer bristling or closing up the moment he enters the scene—and Robin finds he’s quite elated at the chance to get to know this strong, capable, fascinating woman that’s captured his son’s heart with a kindness and ease she works so hard to hide.

 

And he quite enjoys her sharp wit, too.

 

“They say he takes after me,” he smirks.

 

The look she levels him with us sceptical at best, a sharp retort on the tip of her tongue when Robin, suddenly sentimental, amends: “He has his mother's eyes, and hair, and complexion—and her smile.”

 

Regina nods, her face settling into a wistful sort of expression. Her arm twitches, and for a moment he thinks she’ll reach for him, to comfort, to commiserate—he knows she’s lost love before, much like he has. She catches herself though, looks away and bites her lip before she schools her features again.

 

“But not the dimples.”

 

“No, not the dimples,” he chuckles. “I suppose he had to inherit something at least of his father’s, yeah?”

 

“I suppose it’s unavoidable,” she quips, and Robin clutches at his chest in mock-hurt—and then his heart really does need taming, for it flutters in a decidedly indiscreet manner when she adds: “I’ll admit the dimples are not entirely unfortunate.”

 

That’s where it settles in those first weeks—kisses and cuddles for their sons, sarcasm and playful banter between the two of them.

 

She refuses his help though—any help at all—won’t hear of him lending a hand with baby Henry.

 

“I can handle it,” she spits defiantly, with a touch of hurt even, and ushers him out of the door whenever he so much as hints at it.

 

* * *

 

It’s well past Henry’s bedtime, and quite possibly past hers as well, when her shadow appears on his driveway, trudging after the pram.

 

She seems both reluctant and relieved when he rushes out to meet her with the tempting offer of a coffee break during her midnight stroll.

 

“Henry’s not much of a sleeper,” she admits as she takes the steaming mug with a content sigh, adjusting the baby’s blanket. It’s one of those rare occasions she’s switched tailored trousers and sleek skirts for a more casual but still polished look, and even tried to pull her hair up into a tiny ponytail with stubborn strands escaping on both sides in a way he finds rather fetching. “The stroller helps.”

 

Which, of course, also means she doesn’t get to rest even while her son is doing just that. 

 

And it shows. She wasn’t expecting company at this hour (although she didn’t seem completely averse to his, or why would she pick this route?), and her face is bare of makeup—or as close to bare as he’s ever seen it anyway—and showcasing some truly spectacular bags under her drooping eyes. The symptoms are familiar, as is the faintest whiff of desperation he remembers from his time as a new parent.

 

“You look dead on your feet, Regina.”

 

A statement like that was never going to go over well, and the look she throws him is positively singing.

 

“I can handle it,” she hisses through gritted teeth, setting her mug down with such force the contents slosh and spill on the coffee table.

 

“I don’t doubt it,” he cuts in as she jumps—for such is the intent, even though in truth she rises rather heavily—to her feet. The rest comes out in a rush, and if he gets it all out before she’s the chance to storm out it’s only thanks to her reflexes being hampered by exhaustion. “But I’ve been there, Regina. Only relying on yourself to take care of an infant, and doing so every hour of every day— _ and _ night—while also working a full-time job…” And hers is quite the load, managing an entire town. “It takes a toll on a person. All I’m saying is, you don’t have to do it alone.”

 

“But I do!” she whisper-shouts—always mindful of her boy, even at the height of exasperation, with her hands raking through hair the coming to rest around her torso—he hasn’t known her long, but he knows it’s to soothe, to ground herself, and is stunned by the sheer force that compels him to do it for her. He doesn’t though, shoves his hands in his pockets to restrain himself from unsolicited hugs, and lets her vent. 

 

“I need to, because…” she sniffs, her cheeks red from embarrassment, eyes wet with anguish. “I just need to-to prove to myself that I can, all right? That I can be a good mother, because—Because that’s what Henry deserves.”

 

He reaches for her then, takes her hand on impulse, squeezes once and lets go, his chest constricting at the way she stares at him then her hand then back at him again.

 

“You  _ are  _ a good mother, Regina,” he tells her softly, holding her gaze. “You’re wonderful with Henry—you have a way with children in general, as a matter of fact. And you’d be an even greater mum if you just allowed yourself the rest you need once in a while.”

 

“I almost gave up,” she whispers, eyes downcast, sinking back into the sofa cushions as if all strength had left her at the very thought. “I drove all the way back to Boston, to...”

 

To return the baby—her baby, her son, her Henry. Because she thought she wasn’t enough—because she never had been.

 

“But you didn’t,” Robin smiles, though the thing is weighted by sadness over the self-loathing he’s picked up on but never before gotten a glimpse into.

 

Regina closes her eyes at that, reaches for the pram parked just beside her, gripping its handle before she turns back to Robin.

 

“He’s my son,” she shrugs with a wet smile, crooked and wobbly but there.

 

“And a lucky lad he is, too.”

 

Silence falls between them, her eyes boring into him, the tilt of her head betraying scepticism, but she seems to find no evidence of a lie in his demeanour, for her own eyes widen, and her smiles sits firmer, surer, and brighter.

 

“Thank you,” she says, busy cleaning up the spillage with a tissue then emptying what remains of her beverage, “for the coffee...and your words. But it’s late. We should go.”

 

He’s not sure how to play this, how to approach this without spooking her.

 

“Or perhaps you could sleep over.” He opts for a casual, noncommittal tone because she’s certain to refuse anything that seems remotely too intimate, and Robin’s not one to push, but he’s starting to worry about her health. “Henry’s out already—why risk waking him on the way home? We've room enough.”

 

“But...I…”

 

“Should use the opportunity when it presents itself?”

 

“I suppose I should.”

 

* * *

 

His place is by no means large, seems almost minuscule in comparison with her marvel of a mansion, but there’s a cozy guest bedroom upstairs—that Regina refuses to use for fear Henry might wake while they move him. So Robin makes up the sofa for her as best he can. By the time he returns with an extra blanket, Regina is curled up tight and fast asleep.

 

Not that it lasts too long—Robin’s barely settled for the night himself when heartrending cries wake him.

 

Roland, thank goodness, sleeps like the dead when he checks up on him on his way downstairs. He’s not the least bit surprised to find Regina in the kitchen with an armful of Henry, preparing one-handed the formula she prudently seems to carry around in the pram basket. 

 

“Let me get that, yeah?”

 

“No, you don’t know how to—”

 

Robin raises an eyebrow.

 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she groans. “It’s just, Henry likes his food a certain way, and— Look, if you really want to help…” she trails off, and much to Robin’s surprise, end up suggesting: “Would you mind getting him? It’ll be faster.”

 

She transfers Henry to him with utmost care, and makes quick business of his food while Robin bounces him gently, talking to him all the while even though the tot couldn’t possibly hear him with all the noise he’s producing.

 

They move to the living room and sit side by side, Henry still settled in the crook of Robin’s elbow. He expects Regina will want to take him, but she doesn’t—merely leans over Robin and gives Henry his bottle.

 

The little lad is a fussy eater, and colicky to boot—a tricky combination that makes for bad bedfellows.

 

Regina, on the other hand, seems to have reached the end of her rope. Her grip on the bottle wavers, and, though her she hardly seems to realise it, she’s leaning ever more on him, pressing into his arm and shoulder in an attempt to stay upright, to stay close to her son. Her head is very nearly lolling, 

 

“Sorry, I—”

 

“Don’t apologise,” Robin insists, reaching over with his arm hovering over her shoulders until she nods her groggy consent—and then she’s in his arms for real, gingerly covering them all with the extra blanket he’d brought down earlier before she lays her head on Robin’s chest, over Henry’s little feet. “Rest. Please. I’ve got him.”

 

_ I’ve got you, too. _

 

God, how he wishes he needn’t push the sentiment all the way back down. But they’re not there yet—may never get there. She may not be interested in exploring that particular path for them. Either way, now’s not the time to dwell on that.

 

She needs this right now, and so that’s what he’ll give, no strings attached.

 

As for the rest...time will tell.


End file.
